


Quiet

by hiddenlongings



Series: Sleeping in the Stacks [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: I've got this thing for Michael Emerson's legs and I think it shows., M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 14:41:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiddenlongings/pseuds/hiddenlongings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes John can't stand the silence of his apartment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet

Title: Quiet

 

Rating: G

 

Story Warnings: UST, Voyeurism, I’ve got this thing for Michael Emerson’s legs and I think it shows 

 

Relationships: One Sided John Reese/Harold Finch

 

Characters: John Reese, Harold Finch

 

Summary: Sometimes John can’t stand the silence of his apartment.

 

A/N: No real spoilers. No real plot. 

 

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The library is a quiet cave. Dark and cool and private. The narrow windows keep out all but the thinnest haze of sunlight and John, burrowed deep in a darkened corner, feels like an injured animal come home to its lair to lick at wounds both psychological and physical.

 

It feels like an eternity since he’s been able to sleep in the too empty loft that Finch had bought for him. He can go for days without sleep, but even he needs a chance to rest sometimes.

 

He can hear Finch’s footsteps, the slow offbeat tread and the gentle rustle of expensive fabric. 

 

He’s pretty sure Finch doesn’t know that he’s here. He should announce himself, disrupt that stride towards the desk and comfortable chair. 

 

He really doesn’t want to.

 

So John stays silent and unknown in his hidden corner. His own dragging feet had managed to pull him to this private spot, but no further. He’s sure the expensive suit, that Finch had purchased for him, was crinkling harshly beneath his weight as he curls onto his side. He’s sure that it’s dusty and stained at this point. Can’t find it in himself to care. There’s more where this one came from.

 

This spot, his spot, had been a lucky find and he was careful to keep it as dusty and uncared for as the rest of the library is. He doesn’t want Finch to be wandering through the shelves and knowing about this impropriety, this madness.

 

His blue eyes stare between several shelving units free of books, letting him watch Finch from the knee down as he sits down at his desk.

 

Leather shoes, a shining reflective black that gleamed with distorted reflections. Black socks that covered up ankles as finely boned in their way he knew as the wrists that were always covered by shirt and coat sleeves.

 

The ankles were only briefly glimpsed as the shorter man adjusted his pants so that they skimmed the top of his shoes again. John restrains a sigh of disappointment, but lets himself admire the slender calves that the tailor-fitted suit shows off so well. 

 

The low sound of the computer starting up brings John’s eyes away from the gray cloth and he shuts them tightly, pressing his flushed face into the cool marble, trying to get rid of the haze that has been pulling at him.

 

He can’t allow himself much, if he tries to take anything except for money from Finch, John knows he’d never stop. Would just take and take until Finch would recognize him for what he was. Would see what a mistake he had made in trusting John Reese with his mission and with his life.

 

The numbers were the only important thing, they were the only reason that Reese deserved to be alive. Not because he was a good man, never because he was a good man. He had to help Finch and help the irrelevant people that the government wasn’t willing to protect.

 

Finch began to type, the keys hit so swiftly and smoothly that they created an easy susurration that served as a lullaby for John. 

 

He let his body, already lax, go completely boneless. His eyes opened up again, but this time instead of focusing on Harold, John let his eyes track the dust motes that twirled in the slender bands of sunlight.

 

John knew what he was, but he also knew that if he didn’t have these brief afternoons where he allowed himself to drown in the sounds of Harold Finch he’d have to dive back into a bottle in order to escape just how messed up he really was.

 

This man had given him a purpose, had saved his life. He would break that trust only a little bit and that would be enough. Would have to be enough.

As John allows himself to slip into a dreamless slumber, lulled by the keyboard and Harold’s even puffs of breath, he lets his gaze wander once more to the slim legs before his eyes slide shut and he falls deep into bloodless black.


End file.
